Two decades ago I lived in Cabbagetown and had an on-street parking permit for my rapidly decaying Saturn. One winter it was buried during a big storm, then even deeper by passing plows. A brief warm-up melted the snow a bit, then Toronto was plunged into a weeks-long deep freeze, turning the snow bank into a glacier, embedding my car in ice.
After a while it felt like the car belonged there. It was our spot. Nearly a month later, the ice thawed enough that I could dislodge the tires with a shovel. As I was chopping away a man came out of his house and said, “I’ll be glad not to see this car again.” I thought, “nah you’ll see it again because I have a parking permit.”
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